


fitted with never a wrinkle

by FloraStuart



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloraStuart/pseuds/FloraStuart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A good suit means something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fitted with never a wrinkle

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Neal going clothes shopping, and ... this happened. Set during season 2.

The door to the little shop opens with a soft, discreet chime.

Neal has passed it many times; he knows every good clothing store within two miles, but he hasn’t bought a suit since he’s been out of prison.

He hasn’t needed to, until now. Byron was a man of impeccable taste, and close to Neal’s size.

He’s greeted inside by a blast of cold air and a velvet quiet; business is slow at 2:30 on a Friday afternoon. Soft voices and the purr of the air conditioner are muffled by folds of fine silk hanging on racks; bolts of cloth are arrayed along the walls, sober shades ranging from black to charcoal to dove grey. A sewing machine hums somewhere out of sight.

A good suit means something.

Peter doesn’t understand.

It’s not about showing off; it’s about respect. For the task you’re engaged in and the people working beside you, for the people or the systems you represent. He shows up to work well-dressed and it says _this means something to me_.

At the counter he hears a pair of shears, blades coming together in an unrhythmic _snick, snick_. The tailor who greets him is a quiet little man with round glasses and a silver mustache; he hovers at Neal’s elbow as Neal peruses the racks, offers a thoughtful _hmmm_ of approval at each of his selections. Black silk jacket and pants, a dark waistcoat and a white shirt; a black-and-white patterned tie completes the outfit. 

Nothing flashy, but it says _I know what I’m doing is important_. It says _I’m taking this seriously_.

Elegant, but simple. Classic.

He lets the tailor tug on the cuffs of the shirt; he smoothes down the black jacket before the full-length mirror. It's not too long in the back, but it’s long enough.

The tailor drags a small footstool in front of the mirror, crouches as Neal steps onto it, holding a tape measure to his heel. Through a mouthful of straight pins he asks, “Is it for a special occasion, sir?”

Normally they’d take his measurements and send them to Milan, where the whole ensemble would be custom-sewn. But things are moving quickly, now, days rushing forward after months of fruitless searching; Neal is on a schedule and there’s only time enough to pick something off the rack and have the hem adjusted while he waits.

(He glances at a display of hats by the door only once; the hat is his trademark, and would be too easily recognized, and besides. This isn’t about him.)

“Yes.” Neal gives the man a thin smile. It’s about respect. It’s for Kate; he has to look his best, for her.

Peter won’t understand.

Half an hour later it’s all in a garment bag, fifteen thousand dollars draped over his arm. (He had Moz sell the emerald pendant from that job in Barcelona; he told Moz he’d explain why later.) The street noise rushes back as the door opens, a cluster of pigeons scattering as a bus rumbles to a stop at the curb. 

Sticky heat hits him like a wall as he steps onto the sidewalk. The sun strikes liquid sparks from the line of cars moving slowly up the street, reflecting off side mirrors and chrome trim, blazing sharp as broken glass; to the east purple clouds mass in ranks.

A faint breeze carries the smell of summer thunder.

The air feels thick in his throat, heavy and humid. He starts walking; he has only a few things more to pick up. He’ll need paper, cream-colored heavy weight linen card stock, for the invitation; paper and a fountain pen, black ink and a broad nib. The gun is already at June’s.

It’s supposed to rain all night and most of tomorrow, but Sunday will be bright and clear.

He settles the garment bag on his shoulder; some would call it a ridiculous extravagance, but Neal knows better. It’s about respect, for Kate and for June.

He’ll wear his own suit for this.

It wouldn’t be right to get blood on one of Byron’s.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [this](http://www.potw.org/archive/potw85.html) poem, which seemed appropriate.


End file.
